’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it. She recovered herself, however, with amazing facility. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. “Touch a hair on his head and you will insure that I will never make love to you again. ” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. Darkness closed in on them as the officers stepped inside the musty interior. ’ ‘Listen. . . This is altogether insupportable.
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